BEN. Nay, what does that signify? An’ you marry again—why then, I’ll go to sea again, so there’s one for t’other, an’ that be all. Pray don’t let me be your hindrance—e’en marry a God’s name, an the wind sit that way. As for my part, mayhap I have no mind to marry.
FRAIL. That would be pity—such a handsome young gentleman.
BEN. Handsome! he, he, he! nay, forsooth, an you be for joking, I’ll joke with you, for I love my jest, an’ the ship were sinking, as we sayn at sea. But I’ll tell you why I don’t much stand towards matrimony. I love to roam about from port to port, and from land to land; I could never abide to be port-bound, as we call it. Now, a man that is married has, as it were, d’ye see, his feet in the bilboes, and mayhap mayn’t get them out again when he would.
SIR SAMP. Ben’s a wag.
BEN. A man that is married, d’ye see, is no more like another man than a galley-slave is like one of us free sailors; he is chained to an oar all his life, and mayhap forced to tug a leaky vessel into the bargain.
SIR SAMP. A very wag—Ben’s a very wag; only a little rough, he wants a little polishing.
MRS. FRAIL. Not at all; I like his humour mightily: it’s plain and honest—I should like such a humour in a husband extremely.
BEN. Say’n you so, forsooth? Marry, and I should like such a handsome gentlewoman for a bed-fellow hugely. How say you, mistress, would you like going to sea? Mess, you’re a tight vessel, an well rigged, an you were but as well manned.
MRS. FRAIL. I should not doubt that if you were master of me.
BEN. But I’ll tell you one thing, an you come to sea in a high wind, or that lady—you may’nt carry so much sail o’ your head—top and top gallant, by the mess.